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Thursday, October 9, 2014

Johnny No One (unpublished fiction from old notebook)

Johnny was no one. No one
at all. His whole life. Even back when his dad kicked his ass he was no one. To
change this he decided to kill people. Because to be someone required doing
something over the top, and murder was definitely that. Murderers always made
the papers.

Oh and there’d be blood –
lots o’ blood. Not pretty blood, either. It would be blood and body parts and
shit and tears. Thick, brown blood, like demon diarrhea thrust from the broken
pipes of Hell’s plumbing. It would reek of bile and rape, murder and suffering.
Mold and maggots would feast. Johnny would rejoice. He would howl with victory,
bathe in the cesspools and waterfalls of his dripping, oozing empire. He would
be king!

“That’ll do, Johnny,” he
said to himself, putting down the machete he’d been sharpening for two hours.
“Good n’ ready for a date with human flesh.”

He drank a shot of apple
juice from a flask and made a sour face like it was Wild Turkey. He went, “ugh,
man,” and shook his head like he’d been hit hard.

“Time for death!” he
yelled out. He kicked open the door to his shack and walked over to the
neighbor’s house to kill them dead.

He leaped onto the steps
with a growl, but Betty George pulled out a shotgun from beneath her afghan blanket
and shot a hole through his chest. Johnny flew back and smacked the ground. He
was dead. Dead as the first doornail to ever die, and he was still no one.

Farmer George dragged Johnny’s
limp ass into the kitchen and made stew for the whole family.